Candles
by BarracudaHeart
Summary: 'As long as the sea cast waves, the sky carried clouds, and spirits were remembered, some candles were not meant to be lit and seen extinguished. This is what Peter remembered to tell himself everyday.' Sealand-centric, slice-of-life fic. AU


**Regarding this story, I'm not explaining anything, other than the fact that the characters grow old. There are some facts and secrets not confirmed by the characters in this story, because it is Peter's POV, and he doesn't end up discovering everything, especially with Arthur.**

**Do enjoy this fic, and enjoy life. Reviews and reading are always nice.**

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><p>Years went by fast. With every birthday candle you blew, another was waiting to replace it in no time, it seemed. Another year, another awkward growth, or milestone. One minute in highschool, the next getting married. From pulling teeth to pulling out hair. Life went far too quickly when you wanted to enjoy it, and too slow when it was less than desirable. This was something Peter observed throughout his life. He had realized this at his breakfast that morning, sipping his tea slowly, blowing every so often to clear away the overpowering steam.<p>

It wasn't that he was ignorant of this fact. He had sometimes commented jokingly to his friends about how he felt time was going by too fast. But he never actually took those words really seriously. But now, in his lack of childish spring and energy, he was able to slow down and take those words in. And actually say them with meaning.

And yet, no part of his life was empty, or forgotten. It was surprising how fast it went by, but how much had happened.

As Peter silently picked up his last piece of toast, munching it slowly, he looked at the few framed pictures hanging on the yellow flower wallpaper of his kitchen. When he was younger, he thought it was atrocious, but now, he didn't really mind it. He had been living in this home for years, with those he could never forget.

He gazed at the pictures, as he did every morning, silently. He didn't really think too much of them all the time, but right now he did. He gave a fond smile as he looked over a picture of a smiling girl, perhaps eleven years old. The age of the picture turned the color sepia-toned, but Peter could easily remember that her hair was blond. And it had a purple ribbon. And those gorgeous, once-green eyes still shone from behind the frame. Of course Peter remembered her, she was his own wife.

He remembered when he first met Erika Zwingli, when they were just kids. She liked to call herself 'Lilli' because lillies were her favorite flower, Peter always remembered. The only thing he had feared about her was her older brother, Vash, who was in police academy. He swore that his ghost would still be haunting him. He could still hear her adorable Swiss accent every now and then.

Peter still couldn't believe he had survived these last seven years without her. Death came so suddenly. Heart failure is what the coroner said to Peter. Quick and painless for her, but not for his own broken heart. The day after the funeral, which was decorated by so many lillies, the normally cheerful man locked himself away in his house for the next two months, only going out to get the mail.

He still was saddened over it, but Peter knew that life was a different course for everyone, and it would end differently for so many people. He smiled back at Lilli's picture, knowing her life was one of smiles, and that she must have looked back at it, and felt satisfied.

He gazed at the other photograph as he heard footsteps in his house. He turned and smiled, greeting softly, "Good morning Alice."

The nurse smiled kindly at the old man as she replied, "Good morning Peter, did you sleep well last night?"

"Yes, I did. The weather hasn't been too extreme these days, making the temperatures comfortable enough for me to sleep through."

"That's fine to hear." she replied, as she checked the plastic day-to-day pill container on Peter's kitchen counter. She then said to him, "You're running low on the arthritis pills. Are you going to order more?"

"I visited the pharmacy yesterday. The prescription will be mailed." replied the old man, finishing off his tea. He had hired Alice as his nurse when his joints began to get too stiff. She was a smart, friendly woman from Belgium, and she was very helpful for Peter when she worked in his house on wednesdays and saturdays.

Alice looked at the to-do list, written in Peter's shaky handwriting. She then asked, "Do you have laundry that needs cleaning?"

"Oh, yes, up in the hamper. Not too big of a load, lucky for you." he chuckled.

She then crinkled a smile back, "Alright then, I'll go work on that. Holler if you need anything, alright?"

"As always."

When Alice left the kitchen, Peter returned his gaze up to the framed pictures, gazing at another, placed above Lilli's. This one was a picture of himself, dressed in a sailor suit, smiling wickedly as he stood on an ocean pier, the sea behind him. He remembered being about eleven or twelve in the picture, when it was taken. From where, he couldn't remember. Peter could recollect that many of the photos taken of him were at oceans or beaches, and there were far too many to count.

He could remember a particular picture taken of him, on his thirteenth birthday, he remembered. Even though it was not in front of his eyes, Peter could know for certain that he wore a green snow suit and blue gloves in front of a frozen lake in Sweden. His adoptive parents had taken the picture for him.

Berwald and Tino Oxenstierna were two of the most unique people Peter had ever known, and it had nothing to do with the fact that they were both men. It didn't even really matter, because they loved each other. When Peter lived in America for college, he'd often get strange glances from some people when he mentioned that fact. But he managed to ignore them.

But anyway, Peter realized he owed much of his success to them. His mother died when he was twelve, leaving him alone. It was because she was sick, they said. But Peter thought it was because she was old. Well, his brother Arthur was about 25 when Peter was born. That was really surprising. According to his calculations, Peter's mom had to be about 50 when he was born. She didn't look that old, but you could never know...

Arthur couldn't take care of him, leaving him to be placed for adoption. Well, it wasn't that he couldn't, but more like, he didn't want to. At least that's what it seemed like. But bygones were bygones now.

Tino was always openly upbeat and cheerful, concerned for Peter's wellbeing. He'd always have a smile on his face, and he'd go near hysterical when Christmas came around. Occasionally, Peter jokingly called him 'Mama' for his fondness for cooking, and gentle nature.

Berwald was very much the opposite. He was very quiet, and he always seemed to be scowling, or have a blank face. And he always spoke too softly. When Peter first met him, he was kind of nervous. He soon learned of Berwald's gentle loving nature as time went on, and the two were nearly inseperable. And even if Berwald never actually smiled, his son could tell when he was happiest. Peter could almost remember his sixteenth birthday, when, instead of fancy cars or money, the boy simply asked Berwald if they could try and make a sailboat together. Thanks to his father's carpentry skills, Peter was sailing in no time.

He still remembered how devastated he was one day, when he recieved a call from a disheveled Berwald that Tino had suffered a stroke and died. He knew that he was old, well over seventy, but he never thought that the jolly man would ever actually pass away. He couldn't even imagine how hard Berwald must have taken it. For the next year, the old man cut off all contact with people, with a slight exception of Peter. And even then after a while, he seemed a little downtrodden. But then again, he was in his late eighties, so he was probably just winding down. But it took a longer time to actually wind down, it seemed. Because even at age 98, the old Swede was still making and selling rocking chairs.

Peter managed to visit his father in Sweden, to celebrate his 100th birthday. It was a quiet celebration, just the two of them. Peter had suggested that they go out in the boat one more time, but they both knew they couldn't. It was too small for the both of them.

Berwald then said, "'n a few days 'r so, 'll make 'nother big 'nough for you. Then y' can go sailin' 'gain."

Sadly understanding that his father's memory was failing, Peter reminded him, "Papa, I'm leaving tomorrow, remember?"

"Y'h.", he grunted, "But I'll make it 'nyway. F'r old time's sake."

About three weeks after he returned home, Peter recieved a call that his father had died. The fact that it was peacefully in his sleep, was only a slight comfort, as the shock still reduced him to tears on the floor. He felt even worse about the funeral, knowing he couldn't attend. Airfare had gotten more expensive, and Lilli was expecting a baby any day then. The most devastating disappointment of Peter's life was that he couldn't attend either of his father's funerals. Tino was cremated, no burial, and Berwald, as much as he tried to go, he couldn't.

The third picture was the largest. Peter was in it again, this time about fourteen. Behind him sat an assorted group of men. All whom he knew quite well. They had all been the best friends he had for many years.

In the front row, behind Peter, sat Arthur; his brother, Francis; a French chef who was his brother's boyfriend-later-husband, Yao; a Chinese doctor, Ivan; a Russian florist and Cold War veteran, and Alfred; an American mechanic and a Cold War veteran like Ivan, but both were on different sides, ironically. Even more ironically, the two eventually got married.

Arthur didn't like to acknowledge Peter much, and often dismissed him whenever the boy decided to visit. But Peter knew that Arthur was visiting just for him. He always noticed that he never talked to his mom, and his mom didn't like to talk about him. One day, at breakfast, Peter decided to ask his mother when Arthur would come home to stay with them, and she whirled around, glare on her face, as she growled angrily, "Never!"

Peter was so frightened, he began to cry. His mother immediately apologized, and explained that it wasn't Peter's fault she was angry. She then explained that Arthur could tell him why when he was older.

Arthur didn't really tell him anything either. But then again, it could have been because the younger one pestered him a lot, and if he didn't get the reaction or answer he wanted, Peter would call him a jerk, and run around his house to make noise. This annoyed the bushy-browed Britain greatly, and he often could lose his temper.

When Peter's mother began to get sick, the boy visited Arthur often, so he wouldn't have to be around the many doctors who were walking in and out of the house. Arthur's house was much less suited for Peter's interests, but it was more relaxing.

After about a week of the boy visiting, Arthur finally decided to ask 'why the bloody hell the pest was bugging him.'

Peter simply answered, "Mum's sick, and doctors are coming in every day. I don't like them."

Arthur's annoyed expression turned into a concerned one, as he remained silent, and then excused Peter as he went to make a phone call.

"To who?"

"Your mother." answered Arthur, who said nothing more, as he went into his study, closing the door.

Peter wanted to say, "Don't you mean 'our' mother?", but decided against it.

About ten minutes later, Arthur returned to the living room, where Peter was watching a program on the television. Some stupid comedy called _The Goodies_. He quietly sat down next to Peter on the couch. He then said very calmly,

"It looks like you'll be staying with me for a few days. Your mother has asked me to."

"Oh, ok." nodded Peter, who actually didn't mind, simply watching the telly. He'd actually wanted to be around his big brother. He actually enjoyed how nice Arthur was being right now. Maybe they'd be able to do fun things together, like make a boat, or go see that one pirate film Peter had been dying for.

Peter was so excited at the prospect of staying at his brother's house, he didn't notice the melancholy gaze in Arthur's eyes. He didn't even notice it when Arthur offered to read him a Sherlock story before bed.

A few days later, in the middle of the night, Arthur was awoken by a nervous Peter. The boy claimed he had a nightmare, and had a feeling that 'something really bad was going to happen'. Arthur sighed, and asked if Peter wanted to stay in his room for the night. At first, the boy refuted, feeling he was too old, but then again he didn't want to be alone.

So he just lay there, and tried to go asleep. But he had so many questions to ask. And one of them seemed innocent enough. And without much thought, he finally asked,

"Hey, jerk, when's Dad going to come back? I've never really gotten to know him..."

Arthur seemed to be uncomfortably perked by that question. He bit his lip, and smiling sadly, finally said,

"I'm sure he'll be around one day. I know for a fact that he really wants you in his life."

"How would you know?"

"I know the man well Peter. Far too well."

And it was quiet for a while, until Peter yawned, still uncertain as to whether he accepted that answer or not. But then he finally yawned.

"Okay, when Mum gets better, I can try and get in touch with dad."

Peter wasn't quite sure if Arthur got any sleep that night. Especially since about three hours later, at 6 AM, the phone rang. Arthur answered it, to let Peter sleep more, and after a long while, finally hung up.

Peter woke up at about 8, to find the older one sitting at the table, despondent.

"...T-that was mum's doctor, right?"

Arthur barely nodded. He was looking at the floor, his face really disturbing.

"I-is she better?", asked the boy nervously, fearing the worst.

Peter had never been hugged so hard by Arthur in his whole life. And he had never seen his brother cry before. And he wasn't sure if this was the first time Arthur would see him cry too.

After the funeral, Peter ended up staying with Arthur for a few weeks. To be honest, it was kind of depressing. Arthur didn't really do much, except sit at his table, filling out all these strange documents. Peter didn't understand them at all, they looked boring. Every so often, one of Arthur's friends, usually Francis or Alfred, came to the house, and talked to him. Whenever Peter asked what they were talking about, they'd simply smile at him and say nothing he'd be interested in.

Within a few weeks, Peter was sitting on a small, cushiony chair at the child service office. He pouted angrily as the overly cheerful woman behind the desk rambled on and on about him getting adopted by a loving family. He didn't understand why Arthur had given him up. He was a good boy wasn't he?

The night before Peter was sent on a plane to Sweden, he found a letter, sealed and snuck into his front suitcase compartment. He opened it, and in typewriter words was a small note,

_I'm sorry for doing this, but please know I want to be a part of your life. I just can't take care of you now._

Scowling, knowing it was from Arthur, Peter crumpled the letter, and stuffed it back in his suitcase. He didn't hate Arthur or anything, he just thought he was being a jerk again. A huge jerk. He remembered the lady telling him that Peter could visit in the summer, so he wasn't going to not see his brother again or something.

And so every summer, Peter would hug his two adopted fathers goodbye as he boarded a plane back to the place he once called home. But after so many months in Sweden, he knew some things he was once used to would be foreign. The first summer he returned, he remembered Alfred commenting on how his accent sounded a little different. It sounded more 'Swedish' they said.

The summers back were kind of fun for Peter when he was young. He'd get to visit his favorite shops and places again, and he'd get to hang around with his old friends. He'd spend time with Lilli, and Francis occasionally treated him to a homecooked lunch. His first summer back, Ivan had broken his ankle fixing a window, and needed help watering his sunflowers. So Peter did. He visited an air and space museum with Alfred, who would absolutely gush over the different models and their histories, spouting off all the facts he knew. It was pretty silly, but pretty fun. Yao would often try and influence Peter to visit the theater with him, but Peter didn't really grow an interest in it. He never really saw anything practical to it, or the grandness that Yao found in it.

As for Arthur, he'd spend time with Peter occassionally, but he was more distant in comparison to his and Peter's other friends. The first summer, he'd be lounging in his chair reading a book, when Peter would come and ask for him to do something with him. At first, he'd decline, saying he was busy. But after thirty minutes of the kid banging on the back of his chair, he gave in. So things were not perfect, but at least he cared. But Peter thought that the jerk could at least send a Christmas card or something. When he was seventeen, Arthur sent him twenty dollars with a message of 'Happy birthday, from Arthur', but in comparison to everything else, Peter thought it was bare minimum.

And so, this was how things happened, every year. The summer rituals did however discontinue the summer after Peter graduated from high school. Peter could almost remember the graduation ceremony still. All of his and Arthur's friends attended, sitting in one of the back rows. Tino and Berwald sat in a row closer to the front, Tino nearly bawling all over the fat lady next to him, and Arthur sitting inbetween Francis and Yao, not looking up. Alfred was hollering at the top of his lungs, "GO PETER, YOU THE MAN!", while the others smiled and clapped modestly but enthusiastically. Peter was too happy to be embarrassed, since it was an exciting day for him. And the fact that Lilli was standing right behind him, ready to receive her own diploma.

The graduation party back at Alfred's house was pretty fun, since there was a swimming pool in the backyard. And the fact that the American didn't really give a damn about Peter drinking the hidden champagne he bought. Everyone seemed to have a good time, except Arthur and Peter's new parents didn't really talk to each other, and when left together they just stared in awkward silence.

Peter went on to California University in Santa Cruz, where he recieved a Masters in Ocean Sciences. Peter honestly thought it wasn't the best decision of his life initially, but it paid off where it mattered. He had been so busy those years, that he didn't have much time to visit home, or repeat his summer traditions. He knew his friends back home were getting older. There was that blasted age gap. It didn't affect things at first, but as those years began to pick up, it was significant. Hair was graying, and bones were stiffening. Peter noticed this in his friends. He began to dread that if he said goodbye to someone, he'd never see them again. But after a while he didn't feel so anxious over it. They were all well and happy it seemed, and so he'd keep that mindset. And so for some years, it was pretty easygoing and uneventful. Peter spent more time with his friends, and visited his family, but after he and Lilli got engaged, they felt it would be best to move to California, for Peter's career. The last time he would see all of his friends together, hair graying and smiling, would be at his wedding in Sweden.

The first candle to dim the glow in life was Yao, the oldest of Peter's friends. It had been three years after his wedding, that Arthur recieved a frantic call from Kiku, the Chinese man's younger brother, who hysterically was exclaiming that when he went to pick up Yao to go out to lunch, and found him still in bed, not moving, as he tried desperately to wake him up. He was limp and cold in the bed, eyes closed, and his hands relaxed. His once ink-black hair, now gray, lay splayed around his pillow, messed by slumber. It was a heart attack they told everyone. It was clear that he had been asleep, not sensing anything. But it was still despairing for Yao's beloved friends, not believing how silently his life was taken away.

The funeral was very modest, and traditional to his culture, Yao was buried in his homeland. And everyone agreed that it couldn't have been any better of a place to let him rest. But even after the services, things didn't just end there. Everyone was well aware that he had passed away a week before Chinese New Year. And with that, everyone decided to make it a celebration in honor of Yao that year. They traveled through the city where fireworks crackled off, and with Francis and Ivan's creative talents, they made a near authentic Chinese dragon (near authentic, because Alfred drew the Batman logo on the dragon's forehead, which ticked everyone off), and all paraded down the mass-celebration decorated street in it, laughing and singing the whole way. Yao would have loved it.

Peter's life changed in the next five or six years, as about three years after Yao's passing, he and Lilli welcomed their first child, a little boy named Davy. And thus he was growing accustomed to the role of fatherhood, and he'd write letters to his friends, family, and Arthur, telling them about everything. He remembered when he wrote that the child was a boy, Alfred wrote on a scribbled sticky note, enveloped:

_Sweet! Now Ivan owes me five bucks!_

Ivan sent a letter following it, reading:

_If you have another child, tell me in secret what it will be, so I'll bet double._

Lilli looked over his shoulder and said with a smile, "So do you want to help him win, or what?"

Peter nearly fell out of his chair, face red. God, she could be so scary sometimes.

The year after his boy turned four, Peter recieved a call from Francis. He sounded upset.

"It would mean so much to us if you could come back home as soon as you can."

"What's wrong Francis?" asked Peter, feeling nervous.

"I-it's...it's your...brother..."

Peter's heart stopped beating a moment, as he asked with near panic, "What's wrong, is he sick?"

"...He's dying Peter. It's cancer, they caught it too late. He doesn't have much time."

Peter nearly dropped the phone, as he heard what Francis had just said, but thankfully, he didn't drop it, so he could hear the last words.

"He's been asking to see you this whole time..."

Those words echoed in Peter's head, the whole plane ride, that following evening. It was a sixteen hour flight, but he could barely sleep. He felt so tense, he just sat against his seat, staring at the back of the chair in front of him. He nearly forgot to respond when the stewardess came for drink orders.

He had made it to Arthur and Francis' home, where Ivan sat on the couch, eyes dull with sadness. He looked up and said to Peter,

"They asked me to stay here, so if you ended up stopping here, I could drive you to the hospital."

And so he did. It was a silently awkward drive to the hospital, as neither said a word, and Peter's eyes remained glued to the outside world from his passenger window. He still didn't believe that Arthur was dying. The jerk was only about sixty now. And Peter just couldn't believe he would give in to something like cancer.

When they reached the visitor's parking lot, Ivan quietly signed in, and following a tense elevator ride up, they made it to the hospice ward. The old Russian had weathered lines on his hands, not wearing gloves as much these days, and his eyes were tired.

They walked down the hall, and saw Francis and Alfred waiting silently outside a room, slouched on a bench. Francis looked up for a moment, and perked with both relief and sadness as he saw Peter.

When the younger boy walked over, the French man quietly said with despondency, "He's been waiting for you. Go on in."

Hesitantly, Peter turned the doorknob of the room, and stepped in quietly. A small, sickly form lay in the hospital bed, a blue fleece blanket draped over it. Pillows propped him up, leaving him to look out his window to the outside he'd never visit again. His dull green eyes stared out the window, blinking every so often. An IV connected to a pale, thin arm, to a bag of water or something close to it. His once golden hair was pale and unkept. He must have not even bothered with chemotherapy. He knew it was too late.

"Arthur?" called Peter, to get his brother's attention. The withered patient turned his head weakly, and his eyes widened a small bit.

"P-peter?"

"Yeah." he smiled half-heartedly, "It's me. Sorry I took so long to get here."

Arthur smiled weakly, slow in turning the corners of his mouth, "It's alright lad. I didn't really have anything to wait for."

"Hm. I guess. Hospital treating you well?"

"Heh. I guess. But I can't get a bloody cuppatee anywhere in here now."

Peter gave a wistful smile at the IV, eyes sad, "Maybe I can put a teabag in that thing for you...?"

"Don't bother Peter, you know I hate cold tea." he rasped, eyes tired. He managed to fidget slightly under the confining blanket. Peter noticed this, and asked, "Do you want another blanket or something? I can always get a-"

"I'm fine, boy. Just sit down...so what's this I hear about you having your own pest to take care of now?"

Peter smiled as he sat down, "His name's Davy, y'know after that one singer you like?"

"...I prefer the pirate."

Peter gave a light chuckle, "Well anyway, he's got Lilli's green eyes and her hair, but he's got the bloody Kirkland eyebrows."

"Oh the bloody eyebrows..." laughed Arthur weakly, with a gruffness in the throat.

"Heaven forbid if he turns out looking like you."

Arthur lolled his head to the side weakly, and said, "He-...Heaven forbid if my grandboy-"

"_Nephew_." corrected Peter, knowing his brother was not well at all.

Arthur paused a moment, some unidentifiable sadness in his eyes, and he breathed in, "Ne-nephew, right...heaven forbid if he ends up being like me in any aspect. I was a total failure, eh?"

"No, you weren't. You did fine. I..." Peter was starting to tighten up in saying this, "I think you did what's best in giving me to Berwald and Tino. They did a great job taking care of me, and you had time to do things you needed to do. I think it was best for both of us...?"

Arthur sighed, breaths growing tiring, "Y-yes. Best for both of us."

"I think mum would be proud of you Arthur."

"I-I'm not so sure about that. I...I know for a fact that she'd be proud of you."

"Mhm...yeah."

"Y-' turned out all right lad." murmured Arthur, as he slowly sank back into the pillows, deciding he no longer needed to look at the outside anymore.

"...Love you jerk." smiled Peter, eyes blurring, as he took his brother's limp hand, holding it gently. It curled weakly around his own, the dryness uncomfortable, but he'd accept it.

"...lovey'too..." murmured the old Brit, as he felt his eyelids grow heavy. He closed them and sighed. He felt much better.

Within a few minutes, the other three entered the room, and while Francis sat next to Peter, Alfred and Ivan sat on the opposite bedside. They watched in despair as within the next thirty minutes, the breaths grew more and more struggling, and quiet. After a few silent twitches of the chest, he was gone.

As the hand in Peter's grew colder, he felt the tears he was holding fall, as he let out an involuntary sob, feeling his chest constrict. Francis pulled him into a comforting hug, shedding silent tears of his own, as the wedding ring Arthur gave him several years ago seemed to shine a little less. Alfred and Ivan held onto each other, crying silently, as they all fixated their gaze on their friend who seemed smaller than he had ever been.

The funeral was held a week later, in London. Arthur had requested very specifically in his will that he wanted to be remembered there, but buried in Liverpool, where he was born. It was just like Arthur to be specifically demanding, and adamant about his wishes. It was a very quiet service, with only Arthur's closest friends attending. Peter sat up front with Francis, while their other two friends sat behind them, sullen and tired faces. Peter was barely looking at anything, and Francis was on the verge of tears.

As the preacher went on about Arthur's life, describing his love of books and fairy tales, Peter sighed, as he thought of the night after his mother died, Arthur had read him some old Celtic legend about a pixie, and how he had gagged about him reading it. But now, he really missed it. He realized how much he and Arthur had been apart, and how that day in the hospital, at his deathbed, he had been able to gain the closeness he had always wanted.

He realized that he wanted something for Arthur to be remembered by. So after the funeral, and before the burial service, he went into a toy shop. The manager stared at him in his black, solemn suit, but he didn't care. And he went back towards the area with the traditional wooden trinkets. And he found a thin woodcut fairy ornament on a string. He picked it up, not bothering to look at the price tag (not even that expensive), and then went over to the book section. He found a large volume of fairy tales and English folk legends. It had a leather cover, with gold paint trimming the edges. He smiled, and took it to the checkout along with the ornament.

Before the casket was buried, Peter slipped the book into it, and curled it under his brother's arm. About a week later, once a gravestone was placed on the plot, Peter hung the little ornament on it. He knew Arthur would like it.

It was at this time that Peter realized that his friends would not be around as long as he would. They were beginning to fade, especially after Arthur's death. Alfred still had the spunk he did as a young one, but it seemed a little more restrained, as he was not the same man as in 1999, when he married Ivan. The Russian man seemed quieter, but then again, he never really said much anyway. Francis had changed, it seemed after Arthur's passing. He just seemed depressed, as Alfred told him. Peter didn't really blame him. Francis and Arthur had been married for nearly twenty years. And Peter knew how much they loved to pick on each other. He remembered how he'd hear Arthur scream profanities at Francis every so often, while Peter sat in the kitchen, listening to it all. Francis just seemed so_ lonely_ without Arthur now.

"Francis, I promise that sometime this spring, I'll come visit you guys. I don't want you to get lonely."

"I am not lonely Peter. I'm in the company of Alfred and Ivan nearly every day..." he sighed, "I just wish Arthur was still here, so he could talk to me. He could have told me things that he couldn't tell you."

"What do you mean Francy?" asked Peter, confused with what he meant.

"I don't know it myself..." remarked the Frenchman sadly.

That was the last conversation Peter held with the man, because just six months after Arthur's absence, the classy, elegant man left the world in a way Peter didn't believe was fair. Neither Alfred or Ivan had heard from him in days, and went to his home to visit him. When the door wasn't answered, they forced it open, only to be horrified at the sight they found. The French man was crumpled cold and lifeless on the floor, his once blond, now silver hair covering his face. His eyes were still open, blank and unseeing. His face seemed to be the remnants of a horrified grimace. This image made Peter's heart ache, and his stomach churn, as he couldn't even think if the man died in pain. It was most likely the after effects of a stroke, said Alfred on the phone. He most likely never expected it. They all hoped that he did not suffer minutes of pain, and rather the lesser evil of three seconds of terror, or nothing at all.

Francis had requested in his will that he be cremated and his ashes scattered at the top of the Eiffel Tower. And thus, there was no funeral. Sadly, Peter wasn't able to attend, as for his bad luck, he ended up getting a bad fracture in his knee. He felt that sending roses was not enough, but it was all he could really do.

"Alfred and Ivan are going to be so alone Lilli..."

"They've got each other. I think they'll be alright."

"Right, until one of them dies. Then the other will be alone. My friends are falling left and right..."

Lilli touched his shoulder gently, "Then make the best of times with the ones you have. And remember those you had."

Peter did his best to follow that advice. He'd call his friends every so often, seeing how they were doing. It seemed for a while they were fine. One day, Alfred called Peter and said,

"Ivan and I have decided to move over to America. England is getting a little lonesome over here."

"Really?" exclaimed Peter, feeling joyous, "To California?"

"Actually, to Kansas."

"Oh..." responded Peter, feeling his joy diminish a little. He had hoped he could be neighbors with them, or something.

"The housing there is nice and peaceful, and the sunflowers are gorgeous in summer. I used to live in Kansas anyway...before the Cold War."

"Oh, well, that sounds good!" exclaimed Peter genuinely. He was a little disappointed that he wouldn't be as close as desired with his old friends, but it sounded like the perfect place for them to be. He knew they never really liked the rain across the pond.

And times seemed to be going well. Peter heard good things from the two in Kansas, glad that they were happy and content. As they went on with their life, Peter and Lilli went on with theirs, eventually welcoming a little Katie Kirkland to the family.

It had nearly been nine years after Francis that one afternoon, Alfred found Ivan curled up silently on his favorite sunflower blanket, by his favorite field that he visited every day, a few of the lovely flowers in his hand. His face showed content, eyes shut as if he were sleeping. Alfred and Peter both grieved immensely, but they knew that the Russian went peacefully. He had a long productive life, suffering in the earlier years, but happy in the later ones. Peter remembered how Alfred had told him of Ivan's tragedies during the Cold War when the man had to cope with the deaths of his first wife and young daughter, both killed by a drunk driver, and both his sisters victims of the military violence. When he met Alfred, he had never been happier, and his smile couldn't have been any larger on their wedding day. Ivan lived a long time, and did not go fighting and flailing. The small unforced smile on his face proved he had been ready to go, and accepted it gracefully.

The funeral was held in Russia, at St. Basil's cathedral, or as Alfred liked to call it "Candyland Castle". And Ivan must have adopted the joke too, because that's what he called it in his will, making the American laugh through his tears. A large plethora of fresh sunflowers covered the grave in a Moscow cemetary.

After the service, Peter walked at a slow pace with Alfred who plodded stiffly down the Russian street. The American's hair was no longer the sunny blonde it shined, and was near white. His sky blue eyes were more faded and milky as his pair of glasses got thicker. Damned cataracts.

"I've gotten so used to seeing someone I actually know almost every day, and without him, I just don't know what to do." sighed Alfred, out of the blue. He stopped walking, as he leaned on his walking stick.

Peter looked at him, and smiled sadly, "I can always call you."

"That's not what I mean, Peter. I just hate being alone, y'know? I mean, back home, every morning, Ivan would be there, to go through the day with me, and...well...now he's not here. I don't know anybody else in Kansas. I don't want to be living where nobody else is doing the same as me."

Peter sighed, realizing that the old man had a point. Alfred wasn't the same spunky mechanic he knew when he was a kid. He was too old to live on his own now. He and Ivan had cared for each other, but now who would care for him? His home in Kansas was too big for him to live in, now that it only accommodated one.

Peter slowly smiled and then said, "Alfred, you can forget about your flight tonight. You're coming on the 3AM layover to Santa Cruz."

"'scuse me?" asked Alfred, not believing what the younger man was saying.

Peter knew Lilli would have a fit about this, but he didn't mind. He smiled as he gently pulled the old man's arm, adding, "We can clean out your house later, and bring whatever you need over to our place. You can sell your house."

"B-but Peter, I..."

"Look Alfred, you're right, you can't live alone. And Kansas would be far too lonely for you. Ivan wouldn't want you to be lonely. Lucky for you, we've got a spare room."

"Peter, are you sure that you need to-"

"There's an old empty airplane hangar and flat down the street from us. Unused and in pretty good condition still. Davy and I used to set fireworks on New Years over there."

Alfred's eyes widened, a large smile of glee on his wrinkled face. He could use it to hold the old fighter pilot plane he inherited from his grandfather. It was used in WW2. It didn't actually fly anymore, but Alfred still loved the thing. It couldn't fit anywhere in Kansas, so it had to be stored away.

He rasped with a squealy joy, "Really?"

"Yup. We can get the fighter out of storage, and put it in the-"

"Dad, is Grampa Alfred really putting that plane in the hangar?", asked thirteen-year-old Davy, who watched as the old man excitedly told the workmen to back up nice and slowly, and not harm 'his baby'.

"Yes, it's an old one he got from his grandfather. And why are you kids calling him 'Grampa'?"

"He said we could. He said he didn't like being called an uncle, because it would make you feel older than you look." piped up Katie, who had a tendency to be blunt. She got that trait from her mother it seemed.

Peter sighed in both embarrasment and light-hearted amusement. Alfred had been easily welcomed into the family three months ago, Lilli not actually minding him being in the house. The kids; or at least Katie, were just crawling over him. They had never had a grandparent before, and were more than happy to accept the charismatic Alfred as a surrogate grandpa.

And luckily, Alfred was still pretty active in his age, having a nice touch for gardening, and helping in the kitchen.

One day, after two years of living with Peter, the old man smiled and said, "Y'know, I promised myself that one day, before I got _too_ old, I'd go clean that old beauty in the hangar. If I do little by little, it'll be looking as grand as the day she was first flying."

"Do you want any help?" asked Peter, as he put away his dish.

Alfred looked up, and smiled from the couch where he was reading, "I wouldn't mind at all."

And so, the two grabbed the cleaning materials and went to work. The plane was a dark olive green, metal dull, and slightly crusted by rust and corrosion. Peter worked on scrubbing the dust off with water, while Alfred sat on the side of the plane, using the wax and rubber sponge to shine the exterior. His hand moved in slow, stiff circles, but the plane was definitely looking better.

After waxing a large part of the plane, Alfred continued to circle the brush gently, hands not very agile. After a short while, he slowly lowered the sponge down, staring at his reflection in the waxed metal.

Peter got up from his scrubbing to clean his hands a moment, and saw the old man sitting on his stool, staring in front of him, smiling with a slight sadness. There were tears going down his face.

Smiling with empathy, Peter went over to Alfred, and gently lay his hand on his shoulder, "You miss Ivan, huh?"

"Yeah." sniffed Alfred, "But I kind of miss everybody. I guess it's just somedays when I'm thinking of what they're probably doing up their now."

"Heaven's a mysterious place." marveled Peter.

"Amen to that. But y'know what I wanna do?"

"What?"

"I wanna fly my plane."

After a while, the two finished their job, and marveled at their handiwork. The plane was glinting a bright olive green, glowing orange in the sunset. It had never looked brighter.

The next morning, Peter woke up at the time he always did, 6 AM, an hour before Lilli or the kids usually did. He walked past Alfred's room, and with a glance, he was surprised to see the sheets were turned back, and the bed was empty. Was he up already?

"Alfred?" called Peter, as he went downstairs. There was no reply. Peter called his name again, and still nothing but silence.

Peter shrugged, thinking maybe the old man went for a walk. He did that sometimes. But this early?

Deciding it was best to find Alfred, to make sure he was okay, he went outside, and on a strange whim, decided to check the hangar. Walking down the street, he felt the nice morning breeze as the dawn finished breaking. And there he saw the plane, still bright and clean from yesterday. But in the dusk tinted windows of the nose, Peter could see something occupying the cockpit. It looked like Alfred.

"Alfred?" called Peter, to get the man's attention. But the form did not move. Concerned, Peter climbed the ladder connected to the top of the aircraft, and opened the hatch. And there he saw him. Alfred was sitting in the cockpit, eyes closed. Over his pajamas was his bomber jacket that he had locked away for safekeeping. He wasn't breathing.

Peter gave a breathless gasp, "A-Alfred..."

He nudged him to see if he was asleep, but the American did not move. His hand lay limply over the useless control panel of the plane.

Peter choked, "A-alfred, old boy...y-you...the plane can't fly..."

But Alfred had already flown off in the plane, up to the place considered mysterious. He was the last of the candles to extinguish. Peter could only guess that the man climbed into the cockpit during the night, and his heart gave out. But it seemed like he was ready for it.

Tears were already in Peter's face, as he cried, "A-alfred..."

He noticed the happy smile on the man's face, and tried to mimic it in his grief. That was Alfred. He didn't want to have a boring traditional deathbed. He wanted it to be where he could settle in the best. He had to make a show of everything. Peter brushed the old man's hair with melancholy affection. He whispered bittersweetly, smile growing slightly,

"A-at ease soldier."

The funeral service was very traditional. They were able to find a lovely picture of Alfred as a young soldier during the war, smiling proudly with a salute, and it was framed for all to see. A preacher went on about how Alfred was nominated for a medal of honor during the Cold War, and how he was a talented individual with all that he did. A few young soldiers came for a salute, and a flag was draped on the casket, in honor of Alfred's service to the military. He was buried in Russia, so he could be next to his long missed husband.

Peter smiled through the grief. For his wife and children. But he knew that life would never be the same. The set was complete, and those he looked up to, he now looked down at them from a headstone. Some lay in the ground, while some had their remains floating like spirits through the air.

And then time sailed on. Children grew older, colored hair got grayer, and more joints got stiffer. Soon enough, Peter's little boy Davy, who looked like a young Arthur Kirkland, was off to college. And the house seemed lonelier. His little girl was no longer a little girl, but an outgoing teenager, who didn't consider saving time for her and 'dear old Dad'. It hurt, but it was a wistful hurt for Peter, knowing his children were simply growing up.

The day where Katie hit graduation, and drove off to college, Peter cried. He had right to, he knew the people in his life were slowly growing distant. The home he lived in was empty, minus his wife. And so he tried to make the empty spaces go away. He spent time with Lilli, helping her garden, taught himself how to cook better, and the two planned trips to go on together. Peter now wished he had taken pictures of those. They were the twenty most peaceful years of his life.

It had been about a year after Lilli's passing, that Peter traveled back to England, alone. This was the first time he had traveled somewhere, and not meeting someone he'd know for years to come. He didn't plan to come back to California. He no longer worked, and too spacious.

He walked up the road he knew far too well, and found it. His old home, Arthur's really, but it was there. It was still standing, strong but still old. It was empty minus the wallpaper. Ever since his brother and Francis died, nobody lived in it. The shag carpet in the living room stayed put, and the windows were caked with dust.

"Home sweet home.", smiled Peter, as he pulled out the deed he had inherited from his brother past forty years ago. The whole time, even if squatters decided to falsely claim it, this was his home.

"Peter?" asked Alice, shaking the old man awake. He blearily opened his eyes, looking around.

"Hm, wha?"

"You fell asleep at your breakfast table Peter." she chuckled slightly, wiping his nose of the slight bit of currant jam that lay on it with a napkin.

"U-hum...oh, so I did." nodded Peter, pushing his chair out, to get up. He stiffly walked out of the kitchen, and as he did, he took a look at the pictures and smiled. He walked into his living room, and sat down on his chair, looking outside his window, where the pine trees were clustered on a hill. He remembered how he'd climb those trees up to the top, despite Arthur's warnings, and he'd then cry for his brother to get him down. It must have been because the first time Arthur told him to try climbing down himself, he ended up going to the ER, and returning with a bright blue cast on his left arm. He got signatures from everyone, and when he still had enough room on it, he drew a Transformer firing missiles at a UFO. Everyone thought the UFO was a potato except for Alfred, and Peter was the only one who could understand that the robot was a Transformer and not a cardboard box monster.

On the window sill sat eight used candles in a row. Peter had lit them a few days ago. They were all different colors, different shapes, and from different countries. The first to extinguish was a Chinese lantern candle, in a gold rim. After that was a green candle Peter bought in Liverpool, slowly flickering out. A white candle handmade in Finland blew out with a gust of wind. The third, a royal blue dinner candle from the restaurant in the Eiffel Tower followed soon after, unexpectedly. An extremely tall blue one from Sweden lasted a long time, until its wick finally tired. A sunflower scented candle, light lavender color, from Moscow glowed for a long time, before it slowly faded away. A sky blue, star shaped candle from a birthday party in America, lasted a long time before it gave off a crackle that startled Peter, who thanked God he didn't have a heart attack, and it was snuffed immediately. A sweet smelling pink one eventually died as well. Off to the side lay a novelty candle, a lovely aquamarine color. It was hand carved to look like a sailboat. It was not lit yet.

There were grandchildren to watch grow up, and people to know. That candle was not going to extinguish yet. Not for some years. That's what Peter told himself. As long as the sea cast waves, the sky carried clouds, and spirits were remembered, some candles were not meant to be lit and seen extinguished. This is what Peter remembered to tell himself everyday.

Some weeks later, music filled the home as voices sang a song of traditions. A grown woman kissed an old man's cheek, as she smiled, "Happy birthday dad."

As Alice carried the cake in, Peter gazed in aged wonder as the small flickering lights glowed on the frosted pastry, which had been happily scrawled on in icing by his grandchildren. He could just barely make out the deformed '81' in blue gel.

"Mum would have loved this." smiled a grown man, as a young child skittered by his leg to hug their grandfather. Peter now thought he was seeing double, as his own boy and grandson were the near spitting image of the man he called his brother, a face he hadn't seen for many years. The faces he saw surrounding him were so different, but the smiles were not. They were warm, genuine, and of friendship.

And Peter focused again on the wax pillars lighting his treat. Some candles stood for lives, lighting as they started, and fading as they ended. Those were lit with great care and were encouraged to flicker on their own. And some meant for years and wishes, as they passed. And those were easy to decide upon.

Smiling, knowing what these were for, Peter took a breath, and blew out his candles.


End file.
